She gave him a rose

because she wanted one.

The deep negatives

in it gleam them back

cozy charcoal, water reds.

It slashed him/her:

                        the blood

from his head woo

zing her a carpet of

timely adorations ticking

like gecko crooks. Raw

affections stain like beets.

She knows her tears and his are

hanging on the stem,

joyful sometimes,

and he asks her to take what he

hears because a metaphoric kiss will scintillate

her. She invites him

                                 to invite her

over someone more deserving neither

of them have met, or maybe they're both more

deserving than they aren't. She misses him

when she stands in the same room

for #0 sundial's never-pause

and he wants to turn left and pull the

fabric at her elbow

and explore at right angles to last time's octagon.

He will leave or she will get lost like

this confounded petaling symbol they

might have left alone.

                                    But she/he under

stood. She smiled with his soulful eyes

and then the soft grayblack tweed

her arms introduced to him.

They offer each other budding ends because through

those wharfs are unendings and upendings.